The Shock of the New
by Catherine Pugh
Summary: The heir to the Holmes legacy has just entered the world, and is dealt with accordingly. Sequel to "The Shock of the Old."
1. An Appearance

"I suppose she'll have to do," said Sherlock Holmes, inspecting the pink-swaddled infant currently being handed over to him by a rather rotund nurse in the St. Bart's maternity ward. "Average length and weight; craftsmanship acceptable. Appears sturdy. She is the spitting image of Mrs Holmes, but she would have been a substandard alternative."

The nurse clicked a nice photo of Sherlock and child, but was getting increasingly irritated with him. Who on earth would talk like that about a precious new baby?

The subject of his analysis, currently wriggling gently in her father's shockingly expert arms, had burst into the world on Leap Year, arse-backwards and, for a brief but frightening time, entangled. She'd finally been delivered via emergency caesarean, quite small, quite obstinate, but healthy. Deceptively small, but strong, Sherlock noted, gazing at Molly fondly.

For all their work and experimentation with the dearly departed, Sherlock had never come so close to death himself as he helplessly watched his wife slip in and out of mortal danger for an awful cluster of hours.

There was good news and bad news. The good news was, Molly would recover fully in a few weeks. The bad news: Molly underwent an emergency hysterectomy. Her body had been ill-equipped for motherhood, and this child was a surprise in the first place. She would be their only offspring.

Fortunately, neither Holmes _really_ cared about this revelation; they were thankful that everything had worked itself out with no broken hearts, just shaken nerves.

"It can only go up for her from here," Molly mused, still groggy from the painkillers. Sherlock grinned. Sherlock thought siblings were overrated, anyway.

"I suppose this wretched little creature should have a name," Sherlock said, looking down at his rather fascinating daughter. The nurse looked at him sharply, and walked out the door in a huff. The three sat together in that precious triumphant solitude before the relatives and friends would have to be notified.

"I'm too tired to come up with anything interesting. I'm on holiday after that rotten job," she said. "You pick it, dearest." Sherlock sat back in the chair and steepled his fingers under his chin, closing his eyes in thought. He, too, was exhausted, now that the adrenaline of terror had at last made way for euphoria.

She looked down at her sleeping child and, despite what Sherlock said, could only see him in her tiny, yawning visage. The dark curly hair, the icy blue eyes, the obstinate mouth. She did inherit Molly's nose and facial structure. She would be an interesting-looking child, Molly thought. Yes, she'd do nicely indeed.

"I suppose we should have a photo, eh?" Molly said, snapping Sherlock out of his brief trance. He cheerfully obeyed, and took a lovely little portrait of the trio.

"Shall I Instagram it?" Sherlock asked.

"Not until you've come up with a proper name," she murmured, playing with the baby's curls as she did with her husband's identical ones.

"I just have," he replied. "Actually, the baby told me herself in my Mind Palace." He revealed the names by whispering in Molly's ear.

"So her initials will spell HAH," Molly chuckled. "Sherlock, you idiot. Add another initial in there, please."

"I should clarify – some of that is Mrs Hudson's real name," Sherlock said, planting a kiss on Molly's forehead. "She never had any children, so I thought she might like to be this one's godmother. What do you think?"

(John was, of course, the godfather. There was never any question about that.)

"That's a lovely thought, Sherlock," Molly replied.

The nurse returned, and Sherlock reluctantly had to leave his new little family. He swooped up his daughter and handed her to the nurse.

"Have you decided on a name for her?" the nurse asked, bracing herself for Sherlock's answer.

"Yes."

"Well?"

"You are currently holding Miss Hypatia Alice Vernet Holmes. She'll be a bit demanding when she awakes, but don't let her boss you around too much. I'll come calling for her presently, but for god's sake keep her out of the bloody liquour cabinet until I return."

The nurse shook her head in disbelief. She had to give Sherlock Holmes credit…at least it wasn't another godforsaken "Madison."

Sherlock kissed his sleeping wife goodbye and headed back to Baker Street with joy in his heart. He'd have to get some things prepared in the meantime. And it was time to announce his heir. Heiress. Whatever.

His phone pinged. Mycroft.

_I understand you've procreated. Expect a congratulatory postal delivery within the hour. I was not informed of the gender. – MH_

_**Female. She's named after Granny Vernet. – SH**_

_I never took you for one to demonstrate such unabashed sentiment. – MH_

_**Shut up or I will send you never-ending updates on infantile bowel movements. – SH**_

_So the usual, then. – MH_

_-_o0o-

Sherlock, feeling especially mischievous, texted Mycroft photos of the child, smiled, and entered Baker Street. John had been upstairs, waiting for Sherlock's return with a glass of port and the brotherly embrace Mycroft would never give him. Cigars were forbidden, sadly. John bounded downstairs to greet his friend.

"So show Uncle John what this Mini-Me Holmes looks like," Watson demanded excitedly. Sherlock complied, smiled at John's appropriate compliments, and sipped on his port. "A little girl! You lucky bastard. Expect her to be spoiled rotten."

Sherlock and John retained 221B as their headquarters, but he and Molly had taken the larger, three-bedroom flat in A, and John currently lived around the corner. They entered the Holmes residence as Sherlock recounted the day's events.

The buzzer downstairs rang and John leapt up to answer. It was the postman.

"Good god," Watson exclaimed, coming up the stairs, lugging up a gigantic basket.

"The bloody maniac has sent your daughter the entire set of Kenneth Clark's "Civilisation," among other completely age-inappropriate gifts. Who decorates a baby's nursery with a Constable painting?"

"Bastard's more sentimental than he lets on," Sherlock replied, chuckling, examining the painting. "You had something better in mind, John? He noticed the note left from his mother on the table and whooped. "Oooh, the decorators Mummy sent are nearly finished with the nursery. Would you like to see? Guess what it is, John."

"Kittens? Winnie-the-Pooh?"

"BORING," Sherlock replied.

"Wind In The Willows?"

"Ordinary."

John shrugged his shoulders. "Disney Pr-"

"NO," Sherlock thundered.

"Thank heavens," Watson said. He didn't think Molly was the Disney fan type, but she wouldn't have much tolerance for Sherlock's usual taste when it came to a baby. Sherlock certainly wasn't. Sherlock proudly walked Watson over to the nursery door and opened it to reveal the surprise theme.

Even years of having lived with Sherlock Holmes hadn't prepared Watson for the sight before him.

"Jesus christ. William Blake? FOR A BABY?"

The nursery had, in fact, been done entirely in beautiful murals of Blake paintings, with matching orange and blue furniture. A mobile of translucent yellow stars floated over the bassinette; a lamp hung up top with a cover resembling a cloud. The effect was, although intense and unusual, utterly charming, particularly the painting of the winged infant sitting on some bloke's head. Sherlock rolled his eyes at Watson's incredulous outburst.

"_Songs of Innocence_, John? Really. You have no romance in your heart. You are a machine."

"Sherlock, I knew fatherhood would be an entertaining experiment for you, but this…"

"…Is marvellous, admit it."

"Yes," John said, patting Sherlock's back. "Well done, Sherlock."

"Not my idea," Sherlock retorted, ruefully. "Molly and my mother came up with this scheme. But I admit – I'm seething in jealousy of my young daughter at the moment."

"Great, we're off to a good start."


	2. An Explanation

Fatherhood suited Sherlock well, surprisingly. Not being one prone to sleep anyway, Sherlock found the adjustment less intrusive than most new parents. It worked well for the first fortnight.

Molly had been too physically weak from her post-birth health crisis to properly nurse young Hypatia, so the task of caring for said infant had initially been left to Sherlock while Molly remained on bedrest. Sherlock simply undertook the mission as if it were another case. He experimented with formula temperatures and mixtures; he marveled in a string of texts to the recuperating Molly at the simple brilliance of a contraption called a "Diaper Genie."

During his visits with Molly in hospital, Molly and Sherlock excitedly discussed all the interesting things they'd teach Hypatia, and all the interesting places they'd take her, and all the interesting adventures they would have together. Sherlock had the magic of lulling their child to sleep with his hypnotic baritone, so he was tasked nightly with reading to her. At first he started with children's books, like "Little Red Hen," but grew tired of them immediately.

One night Watson came by for a visit and found Sherlock reading to his daughter in her little infant seat propped on the coffee table, facing him. Toby lay purring on his lap. Watson smiled at the charming vignette, until he realised what was really happening as he listened to Sherlock read in very animated, various voices.

"Orwell. You're reading Orwell to a two month old girl, Sherlock. Now I've seen everything."

"It's about ANIMALS, John," Sherlock retorted with a sniff. "Don't ordinary people read books about animals to their offspring?"

"Not ones that backstab and kill each other in nasty political battles, no."

"Well, that's unfortunate."

"I suppose James Joyce is next, then," Watson joked.

"Don't be absurd, John. She's too young for that." He put down the book as Watson picked up Hypatia with a series of kisses and cooing noises, much to Sherlock's annoyance.

"Really, are those noises absolutely necessary?" he clucked, looking up at Uncle John.

Hypatia didn't seem to mind, much to Sherlock's surprise. In fact, the solemn-faced girl appeared to be enjoying Watson's juvenile attentions, made a gurgling noise, and promptly spat up all over his jumper.

"Worth it," Watson said proudly. "She's precious."

Sherlock scowled at the book on his table in response. He wholeheartedly agreed with Watson's assessment, but he wasn't about to betray his feelings on the matter.

-o0o-

After Molly had made her recovery and had settled into the adventure of parenting, the Holmes family hosted a small gathering on Saturday morning at 221B for Hypatia's christening, "and also to congratulate me for not ending up in my own office," Molly joked. Her signature black humour had gotten her through the ordeal, and she was enjoying being a mother, much to her surprise. Three years ago, she probably would have resigned herself to being one of those dreadful people who called themselves "fur parents." Sherlock had saved her from that.

Hypatia was being christened C of E, more out of tradition than religious beliefs of either parent. Mycroft had asked the Archbishop of Canterbury to do the honours, and Sherlock reckoned they might as well. Molly, whose Irish mother had raised her Catholic, didn't care one way or the other as long as the child didn't grow up with nuns yelling at her for whistling.

Sherlock's mother was due to arrive at 221 Baker Street at noon; the christening was set for 3:00 in the afternoon. No one else had ever met her except Molly, and Watson was dying to know what she was like.

-o0o-

_Sherlock and Molly had married three weeks after their whirlwind adventure in Cambridge, despite never having dated or really making any vocal declaration of love between them. They just mutually decided they "might as well get it over with" so they could get on with their work. _

_Their wedding had been a stoic quickie, with John, Mycroft, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson as witnesses. Molly had no living relatives except an aunt she hated, and Sherlock's mother was abroad. Molly's "wedding gown" was a simple green a-line shift, adorned with Sherlock's garnets and her golden mourning brooch, because she thought "Mr. Rackley might like to be at a wedding after being dead for 200 years." Sherlock wore his regular black jacket and purple dress shirt for the event. Unlike John's immense wedding ceremony to the (long-departed) Miss Morstan, the whole affair was over in twenty minutes and Sherlock and Molly had immediately gone back to work. Sherlock had to go to the Isle of Man for a strange blackmail case, and Molly had plenty to autopsy in the meantime. _

_The question of children had been broached but once in their brief courtship_.

"_Do you want children, Sherlock?"_

"_I never really considered it," he replied, truthfully, "but I suppose eventually I may come around to wanting one of…"_

"_Your own?" she finished._

"_No, yours."_

_-o0o-_

_Three weeks later, Molly made a rather interesting discovery. Being a doctor, she knew quite well when Hypatia had been conceived, and the date coincided with a certain evening involving a boat trip and a garnet necklace, much to her amusement. She waited to tell him the news when he returned triumphantly from solving the case._

_His response had been surprised, yet stoic, to his credit. "Oh. I was wondering about that. We sort of just jumped in and….did it, didn't we?"_

"_The one time neither of us had any common sense whatsoever," Molly replied. "Our gift-giving game has officially spiraled out of control. I take your virginity and you present me with a baby. Do you mind, terribly?"_

"_Certainly not."_

"_It is rather marvellous, isn't it?" she asked, relaxing her spirits a bit in relief._

"_Elementary," he murmured, kissing her. "Shall I write you a thank-you note for this pleasant exchange of genetic materials we now seem to possess?"_


	3. A Discovery

Nearly five years had passed, and Hypatia had grown nicely from a wriggly, screaming tomato into some semblance of an attractive little girl. On the surface, she had her father's severe features; alabaster skin and ice-blue eyes, but she had, thankfully, inherited Molly's sweetness and the Hooper nose. Her hair, currently cut in a short style to rein in the wildness of her dark curls, was pure Sherlock.

"Just like dear Brother's hair," said Uncle Mycroft of her profile, during one visit. Mycroft had never liked children, as a rule, but even he was not immune to Hypatia's frightening intelligence and immense charm. He never showed up at the flat without a little present; be it Jaffa cakes or the latest translation of _Beowulf _for bedtime.

-o0o-

"_Why was he named Sherlock, if he was born with dark hair?" Molly had once asked him. "I always thought it meant light-haired.'_

"_Mummy always found irony amusing," Mycroft replied. _

"_This is true," Sherlock replied, chuckling. "Mycroft means 'the farm by the function of the waters.' I doubt Mycroft's been near a farm in the past thirty years. The acridity of manure would overwhelm him into vapours in ten seconds flat."_

_Mycroft bristled. "It's a family surname," he defended. "Father's people were Mycrofts and a very well-bred family."_

"_Yes, they must have been," Sherlock replied. "There must have been thirteen children in all, not counting illegitimates. Not much else to do in Yorkshire in those days."_

-o0o-

"Molly?" Sherlock had said one lazy Sunday afternoon, after putting Hypatia down for a nap with a lullaby from his violin. He'd composed it for her when she was exactly 8 months old. By then, the girl had gotten used to the sound of her father's erratic music, both melodic and atonal, and currently had a devil of a time getting to sleep without him playing something for her.

"Mm?" she handed him a cup of tea she'd just made. Milk, one sugar for her, none for him. She sat next to him on the settee. Toby hopped up on her lap and fell asleep.

"Our child is a pyromaniac."

"Yes, that's to be expected," she replied, warming her hands around the warm beaker. "How so?"

"I told her not to touch the Bunsen burner, and caught her heading straight towards it and reminded her that it would make her fingers burn to a crisp and fall off her hand like that idiotic man at Mummy's work, she said "Oh. Sorry." She was not convincing in the least. She feels no remorse. She's a pyromaniac sociopath demon child," he concluded, chuckling. "Just like me!"

"The question is, dearest love, why was your Bunsen burner out in the first place with a little girl mucking about?"

"I had to do some analysis on an oil discovered next to a corpse, and she happened to be in the kitchen playing with Dolly. By the way, have you seen Dolly's kidney? Hypatia's fit to be tied, she can't find it and won't stop moaning about it. That's what started the whole business."

(Dolly was a rag doll that could be "dissected" by pulling out and reassembling organs with little dots of Velcro, after some failed attempts to "be a pathologist like Mummy" with scissors and the unfortunate remains of a teddy bear. Molly had gotten it for her off Etsy as a birthday present. It was Hypatia's favourite toy.)

"Hang on, I see it," Molly replied, peeling the tiny organ off of the back of Sherlock's trousers. "She's nearly old enough to be your assistant," Molly correctly pointed out, putting the kidney on the side table. "When I was her age, my dad was having me sort out coloured folders and the like. You might want to train her up a bit. She's awfully keen on helping you."

Sherlock's eyes brightened. He hadn't thought of that. Hypatia had been a holy terror of late, chronically in a state of both curiosity and boredom, which had resulted in an interestingly-coloured toxicology report.

"_They can't use this in court," Lestrade had told him, exasperated, when handed a folder of papers decorated entirely in Hypatia's artistic tribute to Toby. Sally Donovan, who had been sitting in the room when Sherlock entered, shook her head in disbelief. Freak's child was turning into Mini-Freak before her very eyes._

"_Bollocks," Sherlock replied. "Nothing says 'Your boyfriend died of acute botulism from a curry takeaway" quite like a smiling kitty-cat."_

"_Right, I'll send it over," Lestrade sighed. "But I'm not taking credit for this one."_

-o0o-

Several days later, Hypatia accompanied her father to the pathology lab.

"Hello, Mummy!" she cried, seeing Molly through the window, inspecting a set of blue toes peeking out from under a gurney cover. Molly cheerfully waved to her kid, flopped down her goggles, and turned on the bonesaw.

Sherlock's charming drawing of the two-headed rat and proud Victorian owner, long-treasured and still hanging over Molly's work desk, was now flanked by several drawings Hypatia had done of "Mummy at her job," which was a hilarious series of Molly in a white coat, hacking at various bodies. Molly proudly showed them off to her colleagues, who silently wondered when the therapy bills for their child would start accruing.

Hypatia turned around and followed her father to his lab table.

"What's that thing?" she asked, pointing to his microscope.

"A microscope. It's how we find out clues," he replied. "Would you like to see what your hair looks like, magnified?"

Hypatia agreed enthusiastically as Sherlock took a pair of scissors and cut off a piece of her hair. He prepared a slide, explaining to her what he was doing, as she stared, absorbing and memorising the whole process. Finally, he lifted her up to see what was inside the microscope.

"Now, what do you see?" he asked her.

Something inside Sherlock stirred as he listened to his daughter excitedly telling him exactly what she saw through the eyepiece. The phrase "spectacularly ignorant" floated through his head, remembering Watson chiding him years ago for not knowing anything about the solar system. Sherlock had expanded his "hard drive" since, no longer needing to delete things he'd learned, because he found it necessary to answer Hypatia's neverending strings of questions.

Molly returned from the other room, her white lab coat spattered in blood.

"Well, what do you see in there?" she asked, removing her coat and placing it in the laundry hamper.

"It's a dark column with cute little scratchy bits," she replied.

"Looking at hair, are we?" Molly smiled. "Good, when we get home I'll tell you all about how I can tell if a person got enough vitamins in their diet."

"I take vitamins," Hypatia insisted.

"If you're a good girl for Daddy this afternoon I'll bring some hair home from work so you can see the differences," Molly said, washing her hands.

"Oh, thank you, Mummy!"

"You do spoil the child," Sherlock replied. Molly walked back over to the lab table to inspect Hypatia's hair in the microscope. "Mmm. Looks good to me," she said. "Healthy follicle, strong walls. Looks like someone's been eating their scrambled eggs like a good girl."

Hypatia sat back proudly, with an identical smile to her father's.

"Obviously," the child replied.


	4. An Illness

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, working on some sample analysis. Lestrade had been only partially correct regarding where the recovered dirt sample had come from in his assessment. Old Greg was getting better with age, which was, sadly, already nearing retirement.

Hypatia sat opposite him, looking into her own microscope. Uncle John had gotten her a microscope set for her 5th birthday, and it was swiftly replacing Dolly as her favourite object. Today she was analysing something "verrrry interesting" under her scope. Sherlock suspected the item currently being observed on the slide was something she'd sneezed out of her little head. The child had contracted a nasty cold and was home from Kindergarten for the day.

Molly and she had spent many evenings playing around with different materials and looking inside. Molly was better at explaining concepts to a five year old, although Sherlock's blunt answers were frequently hilarious to any bystander, often devolving into long, detailed diatribes, when a simple explanation would have done just nicely.

The reverse worked much better, when Sherlock quizzed Hypatia on what she'd learnt. They'd made a splendid game of it. Without looking up from his microscope, Sherlock prompted the latest round.

"If a pH is greater than 7, what does that mean, Hypatia?"

"_snort - -_Alkaline."

"Very good."

"Look, I drew you a picture, Daddy." She produced a drawing of a series of floating germs with frowny faces. "Those are head cold germs. I saw them in my sneeze bogeys."

"Certainly to scale, only partially accurate, but correct sentiment," Sherlock said, inspecting the paper briefly before looking back into his own scope. "Are you feeling any better?"

"Yes," the child replied. "I wish we could go to the park together. The park is lovely." She coughed throughout this thinly-veiled hint.

"If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. You aren't going anywhere, sounding like a thumping seal. Finish your orange juice and go rest on the settee with Toby. I'll fix you some Marmite soldiers in a minute."

Hypatia sighed dramatically, which Sherlock ignored, and cleaned up her mini lab, as her mother had trained her to do. She then toddled over to the sofa for a lie-down. Toby stretched and flopped on top of her as she fiddled with her father's Sudoku cube.

"Daddy, Toby's suffocating me."

"Don't be silly. He only murders rats and the occasional beetle."

-o0o-

Later that evening, as John sat in the armchair blogging about their latest case, he heard Hypatia singing to Dolly in her room, having a very animated conversation that involved the word "precipitate," and he shook his head, blinking.

"Sherlock, does Hypatia have any friends?"

Sherlock was lying on the settee with his fingers steepled and his eyes closed. He opened them and peered at John curiously.

"Friends, John? Of course she has friends. She has Mrs Hudson, and you, and 'Uncle Greggy Dear' and 'Auntie Harry' and Dolly."

"Friends her own age at school? Friends that don't have Velcro livers?"

"I don't pay attention to those things. Why?"

"I just thought she might be lonely. No one ever comes here to play, although I can't blame most parents for not wanting their children around potassium chloride. She doesn't play at other children's homes. Does she ever talk about friends?"

"She hasn't said anything to me."

Truth was, Hypatia wasn't exactly lonely, but she also wasn't prepared for life with "ordinary" children her own age, for obvious reasons. Sherlock knew exactly what John was getting at, but he didn't see much point in exposing his feelings on the subject.

At Hypatia's age, he had been perfectly content to play pirates on his own. Mycroft was much older than him, but even as children they played together; Mycroft dictated how things would be:

"_Now, I'll be Mary Queen of Scots and you'll be Anne Boleyn."_

"_Now, I'll be George V and you'll be Prime Minister H.H Asquith."_

"_Now, I'll be Margaret Thatcher and you'll be an angry Orgreave miner."_

-o0o-

Molly came home, singing a merry tune herself, carrying in groceries.

"I'm baaaack," she said, carrying the Tesco bags into the kitchen. "Behaving yourselves?"

"Hullo," John said cheerfully, rising from the chair, tucking his coat under his arm. "Just on my way up to 221B to do some paperwork for Lestrade."

"Right, let me know if you want some tea, later."

"Thank you!" John left, nodded at Sherlock, and headed upstairs.

Sherlock rose silently, followed Molly into the kitchen, and kissed her on the nape of her neck, the side where her hair had not been parted.

"Hullo, old thing," she breathed, as his lips brushed against her earlobe.

"Hullo, Creature," he whispered back, his deep voice husky, reverberating through her entire body. Molly turned around and the began snogging with great ferocity.

-o0o-


	5. A Retirement

Hypatia had started school, but things went off to a rocky start. Mycroft had ensured her admission to Pembridge Hall School, but the social environment was a difficult transition for the child. They did not know exactly what to do with her. She was already reading Austen at five, writing short adventure stories about Toby, and had memorised every British monarch. The only subject that stumped the child was mathematics, if by 'stump' one means 'working out intermediate algebra.'

To be sure, Hypatia was an intellectual force to be reckoned with.

Teachers tried in vain to keep the child engaged, but she would drift off into daydreams if she found herself getting bored, and she had fended off any class bullying amongst the other girls by delighting them with crude jokes and teaching them jump rope rhymes.

She had officially transcended her father in that department. In the 80s, when Sherlock was a child, being a "nerd" was seen as a bad thing; something reinforced in John Hughes films. To him, bullying had been quite crippling socially. For years the kids in his class chanted "Billy No-Mates" at him, which resulted in outbursts of hilarity amongst his peers. But now, he saw that his little daughter was celebrated for her precociousness, and she used her popularity to her advantage.

Unfortunately, her teachers were concerned that they could not keep up with the child's motor brain. Her levels were already nearing that of university, and her IQ had been clocked at an astonishing 170. (Mycroft's was a mere 165; Sherlock's only two points less, and Molly's somewhere at a respectable 140.)

But despite Hypatia's popularity in the classroom, she still felt that sting of exclusion and would daydream that her father would take her to the park and show her the most disgusting insects and their habitats. Or yucky things in the microscope with Mummy. She had certainly inherited both parents' penchants for the macabre.

Sherlock and Molly sat facing the headmistress, both with identical furrowed brows. The diatribe in Molly's head railed against the inadequacies of the British school system, feminist ranting about the patriarchy, and streams of profanity, but surprisingly, Sherlock remained calm.

"I think it would be best to educate the child at home," he said simply. Molly's head whirled around in shock – did he really mean…was he actually suggesting...?

Their eyes met, and she had her answer. Molly smiled brightly and turned to the headmistress.

"My husband is right," she said. "I'm terribly sorry this didn't work. We will arrange for home education, possibly a governess or tutor." Molly and Sherlock rose, shook the lady's hand, and left the school in a strange cloud of giddiness.

"Sherlock, are you sure? Your work…"

"…is not as interesting as our bizarre offspring." He clasped Molly's hand in his and she tightened her grip. The weather was gorgeous – a rare, crisp October with no rain. They decided to go for a walk together.

"Molly, I think sometimes we forget how fortunate we really are. We choose to work, to help others. It's a luzury, to have means to fall back upon if we choose not to work for a living. But I've lived with a haze of guilt about it ever since I was a child, knowing I had privileges others did not."

Molly's mouth tightened, remembering damp nights in a east Midlands council house, living on a lot of tins of mushy peas and pasta. She'd worked so hard to escape that.

Sherlock continued, as they sat down on a park bench. "Dearest love. I'm forty, I am no longer as physically fit as I was ten or twenty years ago, and I've had my fill of playing the action hero. What's the point of it all, if you can't pass on your legacy?"

A lump formed in Molly's throat as he pulled her against his shoulder and kissed the top of her head. He noticed six lovely grey threads in her nut-brown hair. He refrained from mentioning them, preferring instead to keep them secret until she discovered them and ran to a salon.

"Sherlock, I never thought I'd hear this out of your mouth."

"Frankly, neither did I. But I want our daughter to be as incredible as her mother, and…" his face grew redder as he began to stammer. He'd gotten better at expressing his feelings over the years (and throughout several jolly domestic spats), but sometimes they were so overwhelming he simply couldn't do it.

"Shussh," Molly said, pulling his face toward her and kissing him gently. "You don't need to say any more."

"Molly…we have two hours before our daughter is due home."

"Then let's not waste them."


	6. An Attempt

"Absolutely not. Are you bloody insane?"

Greg Lestrade, with a mouth full of curry chicken salad sarnie, pounded his fist on his desk to punctuate his disapproval. His cheeks puffed as he swallowed. Even if he was furious, he was still starving, and a man has to eat.

The subject of his tirade sat placidly, his fingers steepled under his chin, staring at him right in the eyes. Lestrade was having none of it. The coffee he'd had earlier didn't help his nerves. He swallowed the rest of his lunch.

"The answer is yes. You're bloody insane. You really are."

"That may be so, but that doesn't discount the fact that she figured out the Deerling murder case before I did because 'the husband had hair like Vic Reeves' and I had been questioning a woman."

"She's EIGHT, you sodding git. MY daughter is eight, and right now she is obsessed with Magic Pony Princess."

"Well, MINE is obsessed with dysfunctional mitochondria. Maybe we should set up another play date with little Becky."

"Certainly not. That last play date of theirs cost me thirty bloody quid."

The last time Hypatia had come over to play, she'd cheerfully ripped up Princess Hooftie and told Becky that 'she suspected the cause of death was bog spavin.'

Lestrade dumped the last of his crisps onto his paper plate. Sherlock Holmes had been both a bastion and a thorn in his side for the past fifteen years, but he had clearly cracked at last. Since he had taken Hypatia out of school a few years ago. She was already preparing for her A-levels….at age eight.

Lestrade loved Hypatia to pieces; that wasn't the problem. The problem was that Sherlock had proposed that Hypatia work with him on the latest case.

"The answer is NO, Sherlock. NO."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and rose, straightening out his jacket. He stole one of Lestrade's crisps and turned to walk out the door. Sally Donovan rounded the corner

"Hullo, Freak," she said, "Wait, don't stop. I have something…for Hypatia." She jogged over to her her cubicle and handed Sherlock a little package.

Sally still hated Sherlock, but she had a soft spot for his little girl, who often came in with him to the office. Sally never had children of her own, but for some reason Hypatia, even with her hyper-intelligence, didn't creep her out as much as Sherlock had. Clearly her sweet-tempered mother had a lot to do with that. Hypatia liked to run to Sgt. Donovan, give her a hug, and help her staple together reports. That's ALL Sally would let her do. Sally had a very lovely scribbled portrait of her with her crazy curly hair in a little pink heart hanging in her cubicle. She had given her a glittery ball gown and very high heels. Sally loved it because she had never worn either in her life. No one had ever really considered that Sally might have a secret girly-girl side, except this child. She thought that it might be fun to get a glitter dress and platforms one day…if she could find a reason.

The package in question that Sally had for her was a little stuffed felt kitty-cat that Sally had made, dressed like a bobby. It even had a little nightstick.

"She told me she liked cats," Sally said, blushing. "Especially her cat, Toby. She won't shut up about 'im. So this is Toby in a policeman's uniform."

Sherlock looked at the owl and suddenly gave Sally a hug. It threw her for a second, but she patted him on the back.

"Thank you. It's lovely."

"Right. Well don't do anything creepy with it."

Sherlock chuckled and left the office. Sally smiled to herself and went back to her desk to finish up some paperwork.

-o0o-

Sherlock arrived home. Molly was still at work. He found Mrs Hudson, John and Hypatia having tea. Molly was pulling a late shift – lorry accident earlier that afternoon.

"Hullo, Daddy!" Hypatia shrieked, startling Toby off the settee. She jumped in his arms as he gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"I've got a present for you from Sgt. Donovan," he said, thrusting the stuffed cat into her hand. Please don't dissect it. You've ruined enough toys. You're nearly old enough to do a real one."

"Hoo-hoo!" cried Mrs Hudson. "Sherlock, I made your favourite pudding! Plum!"

"That's not my favourite," Sherlock protested. "For the record, it's banoffee pie."

"Trust me, it will be your favourite pudding when you try this. I got the recipe on a website that Mrs Turner showed me, called Pinterest. All sorts of lovely things there. I sent you something called a Some E Card, dear. It gave me a chuckle." Mrs Hudson reached up and popped a piece in his mouth, as Hypatia clutched him like a baby otter_. This kid really is getting tall,_ he thought. _Nearly too old to hold, now. _The thought made him feel a tad forlorn.

The taste of the cake registered in his mouth as he swallowed. Christ, it really was good.

"I stand corrected, Mrs Hudson. This is quite nice."

Mrs Hudson beamed proudly as she toddled back in the kitchen, where John was finishing his third slice. Hypatia slid back down and ran off to her room. Sherlock sat across from John and sliced himself another piece of plum cake. The two ate in companionable silence as Mrs Hudson sang "Put On A Happy Face" and did the washing-up.

John had been hired to be Hypatia's "governess," just to keep the British school system happy. John would have preferred to have been called "teacher," but Sherlock felt like getting under his skin on the documentation.

Sherlock's phone pinged on the side table in the living room. He got up and picked it up. Twenty texts from Mycroft, all saying "Call me at once," or "Urgent." Mycroft had been crying wolf over some bollocks request from Buckingham Palace that did not interest him in the least. He decided to ignore this one as well.

After John and Mrs Hudson had left, Hypatia emerged from her room clutching a copy of "Catch 22." She curled up next to Sherlock on the settee and read as Sherlock delved into his mind palace. The two sat together in quiet for an hour or so; the only sound in the flat was Toby scratching his litter box somewhere.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Hypatia ran downstairs to open it. Anthea, Mycroft Holmes' personal assistant, stood in front of her, smelling like expensive perfume. She was wrapped in a cashmere pashmina.

"Miss Holmes," she said, quietly. "Is your father home?"

"Yes, he's in his mind palace," Hypatia replied.

"Well, please get him out of it. Your grandmother tried to off herself with some pills this afternoon." Anthea went back to texting.

Hypatia's stomach sank to the ground as she stood rooted in front of her. Anthea looked up and rolled her eyes.

"Go on. Get your father, NOW."

"You rude, insensitive woman!" Hypatia, in a tidal wave of anger and grief, pushed Anthea against the rail, startling the woman up from her phone just long enough to get kicked in the shins. Tears started flowing freely now. "I HATE YOU!"

"Owww, you little brat!" Anthea reached down and rubbed her shin in pain. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Sherlock emerged from the door, completely confused by the sight in front of him. Hypatia in hysterics; Anthea screeching at her.

Anthea.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked Anthea, as Hypatia ran to him, sobbing. Anthea shrugged her shoulders, said something about how horrible his child's manners were, and opened the door to the car.

"Granny…" Hypatia choked, unable to say anything further. Sherlock deduced everything in that instant. He grabbed his scarf and pulled Hypatia with him into the waiting towncar.


	7. A Loss

Violet Sherrinford Vernet Holmes. Mummy.

The very name "Mummy" would often strike terror in young Sherlock's heart growing up, when Mycroft would invoke it in one of his classic guilt trips. She was the only woman of whom Sherlock had been afraid.

It was funny to think, seeing her laying on the bed, still and pale, wires poking her arms, machines wheezing and whirring to keep her alive, that Violet had such a firm stranglehold on her sons' lives. She had had her stomach pumped earlier, but the doctors were not optimistic about her recovery.

_Sherlock and Mycroft had a strained relationship with their mother from the moment each was born. Never one for maternal instincts, she'd once drunkenly proclaimed that Mycroft was the only child she'd ever wanted. Sherlock had been the result of a drunken encounter. She often told him he was an accident; but never once did she ever tell him she loved him. The closest she came once was telling him he made the best Tanqeray and tonic she'd ever had. He was six. Mycroft had felt sorry for his little brother, and made sure he filled in as much as he could in the parental guidance department. Sherlock's own surly temperament made things difficult._

_Violet had suffered from bipolar disorder much of her life, although had only been officially diagnosed with it within the past five years. Sherlock and Mycroft had spent most of their youths living with either one of her manic, delightful highs, in which she would gaily dance around in the living room; or her dreadful lows, in which she would often slap or scream at them like a banshee. It had gotten worse when Mycroft, her favourite child, left for school._

_Young Sherlock had noticed the occasional traces of unfamiliar lipstick and perfumery on Siger Holmes, but refrained from mentioning anything to Mycroft or Mummy. It turned out Siger had a long-term mistress on the side; something everyone knew but chose to ignore._

_Violet's alcoholism really peaked after Sherlock's father suddenly died of a heart attack at the age of 48. Sherlock was twelve. Sherlock discovered him on the floor of his study, clutching his chest. Siger Holmes was the first dead body Sherlock ever examined._

As Sherlock's eyes passed over the sleeping figure of his mother, now with salt-and—pepper hair cut into a severe Anna Wintour bob, he remembered once thinking she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen when he was a little boy. When he met Irene Adler for the first time, her resemblance to Mummy had startled him. (It was the real reason why he couldn't stop looking at her face, despite her being stark naked.) But where there's great beauty, Sherlock had learned early on, there can be equal pain.

And now his mother, hovering so close to death. As Sherlock watched the pumps choke up and down, memories began to leak out of that shut up dungeon in his Mind Palace, forcing themselves upon him in a fury.

The time Mummy took him shopping for his first day of school. The thousands of "darling boys" juxtaposed with the "wretched little bastards." The enveloping smell of her perfume when she hugged him and the stench of the same perfume when she slapped him in the face for stealing her biscuit stash. The times they danced and sang together to Dusty Springfield; the time she smashed her records to bits during one of her tantrums. The night she threatened to slit her wrists and tiny Sherlock held her, hoping through sheer will he could keep his mother's mind from coming unglued. The day Violet Holmes held tiny Hypatia in her arms for her christening, cooing and chirping and showering the child with kisses. Hypatia could do no wrong in Violet's eyes; it was the only thing Sherlock ever felt jealousy for in his child.

It had not been an easy road, and Sherlock found himself hit with more and more proverbial slaps with the sound of each mechanical wheeze.

One for guilt.

One for remorse.

One for sorrow.

One for bitterness.

One for love.

"Mummy," he choked. "You idiot." Although he was a bit unpractised at crying, the sobs came out in great heaping gulps. For the first time ever, the comatose Violet Holmes had no emotional reaction.

"Ah, I see you got my twenty-seven texts," Mycroft said, stoically. "Or was it Anthea who finally got your attention?"

"Anthea can go fuck herself," Sherlock spat at him. "Or do you enjoy sending around women who make my daughter cry?"

"Whatever are you talking about? And don't swear in front of Mummy, it upsets her so."

"She's in a bloody coma," Sherlock retorted, blowing his nose on a Kleenex from the bedstand. "I predict Anthea will likely be wearing black tights for the next two weeks."

"Ah. I'll have a word with her about tactlessness."

"The blind leading the blind."

"The pot calling the kettle."

"Oh, shut up." Sherlock tossed the Kleenex into the bin and looked at his mother, almost willing her to wake up and break up the brotherly bickering with one of her classic barbs, or smacks, or peals of laughter, or guilt trips. She remained peacefully asleep.

"Let's have some coffee, dear brother, we've some things we must discuss."

-o0o-

Hypatia was currently down in the Barts morgue, with her own mother. Molly had been in the middle of wrapping up the results of an elderly gentleman named George (cause of death: choked on Sunday roast) when she caught sight of her daughter running into the lab alone, absolutely wild with grief. After a few moments of trying to calm her down and frantically working out what had happened, Molly kissed her daughter and called Mike Stamford to report a family emergency. Mike relieved her for the rest of the weekend, and she took Hypatia upstairs to see her grandmother.

Molly had a rather strange relationship with Mrs Holmes – she had the bad fortune of encountering her during one of her low periods when she and Sherlock eloped, after a tabloid had outed them. Mummy hated Molly at first; called her a common trollop, amongst other things. The second time they met, Molly was four months pregnant with Hypatia, and Mrs Holmes was much more amiable. In fact, she was downright charming. Before the meds, you never knew what version of Violet you would get with each visit, which explained Mycroft and Sherlock's temperaments quite well.

The medication the doctors had put her on had helped enormously, and Violet had calmed down and rose to the role of grandmother quite nicely. She knew Hypatia was all she was going to get, so she made the most of it, and for all the turmoil she'd caused her own sons, she was determined to make it up with her granddaughter. She would never know the manic depressive version of Violet, until now.

They found Sherlock and Mycroft sitting in silence on either side of Mummy. Hypatia stood rooted just inside the doorway, trying to process the unfamiliar spectacle of her uncle and father and grandmother in the same room. She looked at Sherlock's face and deduced her father had been crying. She'd never seen him cry before, and it frightened her. Molly kissed Hypatia on the top of her head, walked over to Sherlock, and pulled a chair next to him. And Granny in bed. She looked so…pale.

"How did it happen?" Molly whispered to Sherlock, pulling him against her.

"Another one of her spells," Sherlock replied in a whisper, his voice catching. "She had refused to take her medication and she gobbled down a whole bottle of sleeping pills. It's the first time in years since she made an attempt."

Mycroft sniffed and watched his brother and sister-in-law talking quietly together, holding hands. Hypatia turned around and saw her uncle looking off to the side of the room, staring into space. She deduced he must be terribly lonely.

"You look so lost, Uncle," she said softly. "I miss her, too."

She walked over to Mycroft and took his hand so he wouldn't feel alone.

This breach of personal space initially startled Mycroft, but Hypatia's earnestness melted him completely. All of a sudden, he took the child in his arms and began to cry. Hypatia hugged him tightly against her.

"Oh, child," he choked. The dam burst for the first time since Father died. Forty years of turmoil, gone quietly, slipping away minute by minute.

Two hours later, the Holmes boys were orphans.


	8. A Funeral

Sherlock had often scoffed about his ancestors being "country squires," but he was being deliberately modest. The reality was, both sides of his family had been quite intrinsically woven into the British aristocracy for the past millennium. The great hallways boasted paintings of highly-decorated noblemen, most of them grandfathers-several-times-removed. One of Sherlock's ancestors was a princess.

"The only relatives I liked were Granny Vernet and father's uncle Roger. They only wheeled him out at Christmas because he had Tourette's Syndrome." Sherlock grumbled. "You won't see his portrait anywhere."

"The paintings in this room are lovely," Molly said, unable to say anything interesting.

"Mmm. Inbred and entitled, the lot of them," Sherlock sneered in response. He waved his hand dismissively. "I never liked this place. Too…claustrophobic."

In a weird way, Sherlock was correct: the enormity of the place made one feel small and alone. She understood why he hated it.

The funeral had been a miserable affair. Sherlock had been in an utterly foul mood since his mother died, and nothing would break him of the gloom. He even snapped at Hypatia for putting black ribbons on Toby's tail, and immediately regretted it so much he bought her an entire box of allsorts. (Hypatia hated liquourice and only ate the coconut bits.) Molly told him glibly that he would have the pleasure of taking their daughter to the dentist next, if he weren't careful.

After that, Sherlock didn't speak for the three days before the funeral. Mycroft arranged for everything. Molly ensured that the released cause of death for her mother-in-law was officially heart failure. Fifty-six unread and unanswered texts from people voicing sympathies; eleven from Mycroft ordering him to purchase a tie for the memorial service.

The eulogy was delivered by one of the Royal Family (it didn't matter which one; Sherlock found them all tiresome). The only thing Sherlock insisted upon for the service – his only contribution – was that they play a specific song by Dusty Springfield.

"For obvious reasons," he said softly. Molly bawled when it played, as it became apparent to her that the song conveyed Sherlock's true emotions toward his mother.

And yet, both brothers sat stone-faced throughout the ceremony. Neither had anything to say to the public. After the display in the hospital, the Holmes men suited up in their armours of stoicism.

Her urn was ceremoniously dumped in the hole in the family plot. And it was over. The well-wishes, the "I'm sorrys," the "She was so lovelys." It took all of Sherlock's willpower not to roll his eyes at each and every greeter, to tell them what a rotten woman she could be; to scoff at the lies under the veneer of aristocracy. Like any of these people, like any of the Royals, like any celebrity, Violet was like any other human being – vulnerable, complex, tortured, a prisoner of her own mind. None of these people knew what the sting of her hand felt like, the stings of her words, or the joys of her vivacious sense of humour when it made a rare appearance. He loathed the hypocrisy.

John had come along to pay his respects, although he had only met Violet Holmes once and disliked her as much as she disliked him. He was currently minding Hypatia, taking her for a walk around the grounds. Hypatia had a keen interest to try the hedge maze on the East Lawn. She reckoned she could beat Uncle John on the way out.

-o0o-

The first time Molly had ever seen Sherrinford Garth, she had certainly been intimidated. The 1600s-era manor house looked like a Merchant-Ivory set, and she'd only seen the sitting-room both times she went. She'd never seen any other part of the place; both times they went, Sherlock demanded they leave within an hour.

Mycroft, being the firstborn, had inherited the entire lot when Father died, but Violet Holmes had a substantial amount in her own name, and they were there to settle the legal agreements. The solicitor rang to say he would be an hour late.

"Aren't you concerned Hypatia will break something?" Molly asked, worried.

"Quite the contrary, I encourage it," Sherlock replied. "Thank god I married common stock." He took Molly's hand. "I say, old thing, would you like to see my old nursery?"

Molly agreed, and they went upstairs. It had remained completely unchanged since Sherlock left for boarding school.

"Is that you and Mycroft?" she asked incredulously, pointing at a photorealistic painting of two young children, the younger seated formally on a red velvet wingback chair; the elder standing next to it with his arm draped along the back. Both had the unmistakable Holmes expressions. Molly suspected Sherlock had burst forth from the womb, scowling.

"Ugh, yeah." Sherlock hated that painting. He remembered sitting for the photographs for the session, fidgeting, being promised a biscuit and never getting it. It always freaked him out to see himself on the wall, above the potted ferns, perpetually a five-year-old surly little bastard. "I'm surprised they didn't shove me in a Little Lord Fauntleroy suit."

Molly, instead of getting broody and possessive as he'd feared, saw his facial expression and refrained from making any of the dreaded squealing noises. Instead, she took his hand.

"It IS a rotten painting." Sherlock laughed for the first time in three days. He pulled her toward him and kissed her gently in her hair.

"I admit, I am getting a perverse pleasure showing you around the old homestead without Mummy screeching at us, if that makes any sense."

"Mmm. I understand. Show me the rest of this creaky old joint. Are there any ghosts here? I've always wanted to ask."

"Oh, LOADS!" Sherlock's face lit up.

They explored the mansion for the next forty-five minutes, Sherlock giving brief descriptions of rooms, telling stories about the strange things he'd encountered as a child- the time a transparent woman in white walked right through a wall – the time he could have sworn he saw something float past the library. She was surprised at Sherlock's enthusiasm for ghosts; she'd always assumed his stance on superstition and the paranormal would be a resounding "bollocks." But not in his own homestead. He seemed to relish the idea of ghostly haunts.

"Mycroft always said I had an overactive imagination as a child," he mused. "I always wanted to play pirates, and was convinced the bath in the West Wing was a pirate ship. Nanny would physically have to drag me out of there when I was young. I called her the Siren."

"Good grief," laughed Molly. It was good to hear Sherlock finally talk about something – anything – and even better that it was amusing. Molly's laugh stirred something in him as he pulled her gently into the nursery and tenderly kissed her.

"I am sorry, Molly."

"About what?" she asked, her heart pounding.

"Everything."

"Darling, I agreed to jump into matrimony with you for better or worse," she said, stroking his cheeks.

"Admirable woman. I knew I loved you for a damned good reason." He kissed Molly deeply, all of the week's emotions rising in a tsunami of passion. Molly reached behind him to lock the door. Within thirty seconds, the pair were mostly disrobed and going at it like a pair of wild rabbits, knocking over Sherlock's old rocking horse.

Ten minutes later, Molly smiled up beatifically at her husband. He wondered how he had gotten so fortunate to have her in his life.

"Damn, I hear the solicitor's car coming up the drive. We have a will to sort out, I reckon."

They straightened themselves out as best as they could and descended into the study. Mycroft raised his eyebrow quizzically as the pair walked into the room, his eyes not missing a single thing.

"Better?" he asked.

"Much," Sherlock replied.

During the will reading, the solicitor revealed that Mummy had left a note in her safety deposit box.

_**I suppose by now I've been burned in a room somewhere and buried, as per my request. You are likely very confused as to my state of mind and whether this was another one of my attempts. I assure you I was very deliberate in my choice. **_

Mycroft coughed uncomfortably. The solicitor continued.

_**The fact of the matter is, I was told this evening that I am dying, anyway. I've got a rare disease that will render me a blubbering idiot in a wheelchair, like Roger. I'd prefer to leave this world on my own terms and of sound mind. I do apologise for any distress I may have caused you. I'd have left this with my body, but you do know how strange the police are about these things.**_

_**Mummy**_

"Well, that's that, then," Mycroft sighed. "Any objections to my decision before we have it finalized?"

"No," said Sherlock flippantly. "I just want to go home."

"Home," sniffed Mycroft. "After today, this junk heap will never be anyone's home again."

"Thank god for that."

The brothers had decided to turn the mansion, its antique contents, and its grounds over to the government as a public park and museum. Neither had any use for or liking of the place.

Hypatia was willed a substantial trust fund for her education, but nothing else. Molly was surprisingly remembered – she inherited a hideous geometric brooch.

"Mummy hated that," Sherlock remarked. "But it's full of emeralds and things so I suppose you could sell it, if you like."

Molly laughed. "No, I think I shall wear it proudly on my coat."

Sherlock groaned. "Only if you want to look like Margaret Thatcher."

"Can I play with it, Mummy?" asked Hypatia. "It looks like a beam thing from Star Trek."

Sherlock had been willed only one thing by his mother, and he had proudly tucked it under his arm as they walked out to the car. It was Mummy's favourite 45, the one she'd danced to with Sherlock as a child – one she hadn't broken in a fit.

When I said, I needed you  
You said you would always stay  
It wasn't me who changed, but you  
And now you've gone away

Don't you see that now you've gone  
And I'm left here on my own  
And that I have to follow you  
And beg you to come home

Left alone with just a memory  
Life seems dead and so unreal  
All that's left is loneliness  
There's nothing left to feel

You don't have to say you love me  
Just be close at hand  
You don't have to stay forever  
I will understand  
Believe me, believe me

- Dusty Springfield


End file.
